‘It’s too late. Over. Done with. Let me make this clear, Mr Churchill. Berlin isn’t going to happen.’

The Prime Minister was taken aback. He wasn’t used to such outspoken defiance. ‘No’ is not a word used between allies, not baldly and up front like this. ‘But surely that is mistaken …’ He bit his lip. His lisp became much more pronounced when he was off guard, and his choice of words was clumsy. ‘General, we could be in Berlin inside a fortnight. You cannot possibly pretend it’s too late …’

‘Mr Churchill, believe me, it’s too late. I’ve already been in contact with Marshal Stalin. And we’ve agreed. Berlin is his.’

Churchill’s lips pouted incredulously like a hooked fish, then his jaw dropped, until it sagged on to his chest. The exhilaration drained from his face and he began to search for his words with uncharacteristic diffidence. ‘You … have taken it upon yourself … to communicate directly with the Russians? Without any reference to me? Or President Roosevelt?’ Churchill could scarcely believe the words, even as he found them. ‘In God’s name, General, what the devil do you think you’re playing at?’ he shouted, loudly enough for the aides to wander discreetly a few steps further away. ‘You can’t go round making deals with the bloody Russians!’ He thrust his walking stick into the soft ground, like a medieval knight planting his colours.

Eisenhower did not flinch. ‘On military matters, indeed I can.’

‘This isn’t military. This is high politics. And to my mind, high bloody treason!’

‘Prime Minister, politics may be your game but the military conduct of this war and the defeat of the German armies is my responsibility as Supreme Allied Commander. My conversations with Moscow have been entirely non-political.’

‘Non-political! With Stalin?’

‘With Marshal Stalin as Supreme Commander of the Red Army. Yes.’

The aides of both men had begun to shuffle closer once again, anxious not to be completely out of earshot. This was going to be one for the grandchildren.

‘You have stabbed me in the back. Ruined everything I and my country have fought for all these years.’

‘That’s rot. Berlin’s of no military consequence. It has no great defence industries, no strategic significance. Only piles of smashed coffee shops and hordes of civilians, many of whom are going to be slaughtered no matter who takes Berlin.’

‘It is of supreme political importance, General Eisenhower …’

‘That’s one for the politicians, sir. Not for me. I’m concerned solely with the military aspects of this war which I want to finish with as little loss of Allied life as I can manage. For that it’s essential I come to tactical battlefield agreements with the Russians. That’s all I’ve done.’ There was a small,’ insincere smile playing around Eisenhower’s lips. He had the argument rehearsed word perfect, including all that crap about it having nothing to do with politics. He was a military man but he was beginning to learn about politics. Fast.

The two men stood on the bare hillside, silhouetted against the panorama of the Rhine and its military activity, with all the passion and hostility of the thousands of men below seemingly concentrated in the few feet between them. One aide later said it was like watching an old-fashioned duel, the weapons being words instead of cocked pistols.

‘Be in no doubt, General, that I shall contact the President. Immediately. This decision must and will be overturned. And if it means your removal or even court martial, then so be it!’ Churchill pushed one foot forward towards his adversary, as if preparing to fire.

In contrast the American seemed to relax, shrugging his shoulders, already confident that the threat would miss its target. ‘Think, sir. Think very carefully before you rush into that. You know just how sick the President is. Frankly, he’s been incapable of handling any serious paperwork for several weeks. He’s dying, that’s the view of those around him. And he’s certainly not fit enough to handle matters like this. Any decision will simply be shunted back down the line. Probably right back to me. And it’s inevitable there will be some considerable delay, by which time’ – he shrugged – ‘it will all be history.’

Churchill began to feel he was being outmanoeuvred. He waved his hands as if to imply that the issues were much broader than Eisenhower could possibly contemplate, his voice booming in an attempt to bully the American into submission. ‘War should be a building block, not just a mindless system of destruction! Politics must have its place in the way a war is fought.’

‘Like the sort of politics you’ve been playing with my reinforcements?’

‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘The several thousand troops who should be out there now, winning the war’ – he jerked his thumb in the direction of the great river behind him – ‘instead of scurrying around Britain searching for one escaped prisoner. What is the world going to think, Mr Churchill, of a leader who publicly urges a bloody advance towards Berlin while at the same time privately denying that effort its necessary reinforcements? People might conclude you’ve been playing politics with the lives of tens of thousands of innocent soldiers. Seems to me it’s not just my job that’s at risk here …’

Churchill’s complexion had become suffused with the heat of anger and indignation. ‘You are threatening me, General!’

Eisenhower returned the challenge with steady, ice-cool eyes. ‘Oh, no, Mr Churchill,’ he said softly. ‘I’m just calling your bluff.’

Goebbels watched the broken figure of Hirschfeldt shuffle out the door. The condemnation of a friend who had served the cause faithfully for so many years left no trace of emotion in his face, it was just another sacrifice required by war. He had long ago learned to compartmentalize his emotions, not to allow them to get in the way of doing his job. And he was very good at his job.

Almost before the sagging back of Hirschfeldt had disappeared the doorway was filled with the figure of Captain Otto Misch, also a member of the FBK, immaculately suited in his Waffen SS uniform complete with death’s head insignia and slashing shoulder flashes. Misch was tall, blond, sinewy, every inch as if he had stepped straight out of a recruiting poster, but the three fingers missing on his left hand and the Iron Cross pinned at his neck declared that he was no paper hero. He had seen action, and revelled in it. That was why he had been selected for the elite. Although a veteran, Misch was young, still in his early twenties and, beneath the veneer of the uniform and medals, was still callow with little experience or confidence outside his military life. Ruthless, unquestioning, indefatigable, dedicated to ensuring that his leader’s will was done, but immature and in complete awe of Goebbels – in the Reichsminister’s mind it was an exemplary combination of qualities, which was why he had chosen Misch as his ADC. It had the added advantage, Goebbels mused, that the captain would not dare to respond to the advances which his wife Magda offered so freely to any good-looking young man who came within her orbit, particularly a specimen who, like Misch, made up for his intellectual and social inadequacies with the physical frame of a stallion. The cow always chose someone as different from himself as possible …

And the choice was enormous. It was a deep sadness to Goebbels that National Socialism had attracted over the years so few people of intellectual quality. That hurt. But there had been no time for persuasion and argument, to employ the tools of discussion and debate in the rush to build the Reich. Perhaps if they’d been able to give themselves a breathing space, if they hadn’t invaded Russia so soon …

The click of Misch’s polished heels interrupted Goebbels’ reflections. ‘You called, Herr Reichsminister.’